Windmills of the Gods (3 page)

“I think so too. I’d like to have a full security check run on her.”

“I’ll see that it’s done.”

“I disagree, Professor Ashley.” Barry Dylan, the brightest and youngest of the students in Mary Ashley’s political science seminar, looked around defiantly. “Alexandras Ionescu is worse than Ceau§escu ever was.”

“Can you give us some facts to back up that statement?” Mary Ashley asked.

There were twelve graduate students in the seminar being held in a classroom at Kansas State University’s Dykstra Hall. The students were seated in a semicircle facing Mary. The waiting lists to get into her classes were longer than any other professor’s at the university. She was a superb teacher, with an easy sense of humor and a warmth that made being around her a pleasure. She had an oval face that changed from interesting to beautiful, depending on her mood. She had the high cheekbones of a model and almond-shaped hazel eyes. Her hair was dark and thick. She had a figure that made her female students envious, and the males fantasize, yet she was unaware of how beautiful she was.

Barry was wondering if she was happy with her husband. He reluctantly brought his attention back to the problem at hand.

“Well, when Ionescu took over Romania, he cracked down on all the pro-Groza elements and reestablished a hard-line, pro-Soviet position. Even Ceau§escu wasn’t that bad.”

Another student spoke up. “Then why is President Ellison so anxious to establish diplomatic relations with him?”

“Because we want to woo him into the Western orbit.”

“Remember,” Mary said, “Nicolae Ceau§escu also had a foot in both camps. What year did that start?”

Barry again. “In 1963, when Romania took sides in the dispute between Russia and China to show its independence in international affairs.”

“What about Romania’s current relationship with the other Warsaw Pact countries, and Russia in particular?” Mary asked.

“I’d say it’s stronger now.”

Another voice. “I don’t agree. Romania criticized Russia’s invasion of Afghanistan, and they criticized the Russians’ arrangement with the EEC. Also, Professor Ashley—”

The bell sounded. The time was up.

Mary said, “Monday we’ll talk about the basic factors that affect the Soviet attitude toward Eastern Europe, and we’ll discuss the possible consequences of President Ellison’s plan to penetrate the Eastern bloc. Have a good weekend.”

Mary watched the students rise and head for the door.

“You too, Professor.”

Mary Ashley loved the give-and-take of the seminar. History and geography came alive in the heated discussions among the bright young graduate students. Foreign names and places became real, and historical events took on flesh and blood. This was her fifth year on the faculty of Kansas State University, and teaching still excited her. She taught five political science classes a year in addition to the graduate seminars, and each of them dealt with the Soviet Union
and its satellite countries. At times she felt like a fraud.
I’ve never been to any of the countries I teach about,
she thought.
I’ve never even been outside the United States.

Mary Ashley had been born in Junction City, as had her parents. The only member of her family who had known Europe was her grandfather, who had come from the small Romanian village of Voronet.

Mary had planned a trip abroad when she received her master’s degree, but that summer she met Edward Ashley, and the European trip turned into a three-day honeymoon at Waterville, fifty-five miles from Junction City, where Edward was taking care of a critical heart patient.

“We really must travel next year,” Mary said to Edward shortly after they were married. “I’m dying to see Rome and Paris and Romania.”

“So am I. It’s a date. Next summer.”

But that following summer Beth was born, and Edward was caught up in his work at the Geary Community Hospital. Two years later, Tim was born. Mary had gotten her Ph.D. and gone back to teaching at Kansas State University, and somehow the years had melted away. Except for brief trips to Chicago, Atlanta, and Denver, Mary had never been out of the state of Kansas.

One day,
she promised herself.
One day…

Mary gathered her notes together and glanced out the window. Frost had painted the window a winter gray, and it was beginning to snow again. She put on her lined leather coat and a red woolen scarf and headed toward the Vattier Street entrance, where she had parked her car.

The campus was huge, 315 acres dotted with eighty-seven buildings, including laboratories, theaters, and chapels, amid a rustic setting of trees and grass. From a distance, the brown limestone buildings of the university, with their turrets, re
sembled ancient castles ready to repel enemy hordes. As Mary passed Denison Hall, a stranger with a Nikon camera was walking toward her. He aimed the camera at the building and pressed the shutter. Mary was in the foreground of the picture.
I should have got out of his way,
she thought.
I’ve spoiled his picture.

One hour later, the photograph was on its way to Washington, D.C.

Every town has its own distinctive rhythm, a life pulse that springs from the people and the land. Junction City, in Geary County, is a farm community, population 20,381, 130 miles west of Kansas City, priding itself on being the geographical center of the continental United States. It has a newspaper—
The Daily Union
—a radio station, and a television station. The downtown shopping area consists of a series of scattered stores and gas stations along Sixth Street and on Washington. There is a J. C. Penney’s, the First National Bank, a Domino Pizza, Flower Jeweler’s, and a Woolworth’s. There are fast-food chains, a bus station, a menswear shop, and a liquor store—the type of establishments that are duplicated in hundreds of small towns across the United States. But the residents of Junction City love it for its bucolic peace and tranquillity. On weekdays, at least. Weekends, Junction City becomes the rest-and-recreation center for the soldiers at nearby Fort Riley.

Mary Ashley stopped to shop for dinner at Dillon’s Market on her way home and then headed north toward Old Milford Road, a lovely residential area overlooking a lake. Oak and elm trees lined the left side of the road, while on the right side were beautiful houses variously made of stone, brick, or wood.

The Ashleys lived in a two-story stone house set in the middle of gently rolling hills. It had been bought by Dr. Edward
Ashley and his bride thirteen years earlier. It consisted of a large living room, dining room, library, breakfast room, and kitchen downstairs, and a master suite and two additional bedrooms upstairs.

“It’s awfully large for just two people,” Mary Ashley had protested.

Edward had taken her into his arms and held her close. “Who said it’s going to be for only two people?”

When Mary arrived home from the university, Tim and Beth were waiting to greet her.

“Guess what?” Tim said. “We’re going to have our pictures in the paper!”

“Help me put away the groceries,” Mary said. “What paper?”

“The man didn’t say, but he took our pictures and he said we’d hear from him.”

Mary stopped and turned to look at her son. “Did this man say why?”

“No,” Tim said, “but he sure had a nifty Nikon.”

On Sunday, Mary celebrated—although that was not the word that sprang to her mind—her thirty-fifth birthday. Edward had arranged a surprise party for her at the country club. Their neighbors, Florence and Douglas Schiffer, and four other couples were waiting for her. Edward was as delighted as a small child at the look of amazement on Mary’s face when she walked into the club and saw the festive table and the happy birthday banner. She did not have the heart to tell him that she had known about the party for the past two weeks. She adored Edward.
And why not? Who wouldn’t?
He was attractive and intelligent and caring. His grandfather and father had been doctors, and it had never occurred to Edward to be anything else. He was the best surgeon in Junction City, a good father, and a wonderful husband.

As Mary blew out the candles on her birthday cake, she looked across at Edward and thought:
How lucky can a lady be?

Monday morning, Mary awoke with a hangover. There had been a lot of champagne toasts the night before, and she was not used to drinking alcohol. It took an effort to get out of bed.
That champagne done me in. Never again,
she promised herself.

She eased her way downstairs and gingerly set about preparing breakfast for the children, trying to ignore the pounding in her head.

“Champagne,” Mary groaned, “is France’s vengeance against us.”

Beth walked into the room carrying an armful of books. “Who are you talking to, Mother?”

“Myself.”

“That’s weird.”

“When you’re right, you’re right.” Mary put a box of cereal on the table. “I bought a new cereal for you. You’re going to like it.”

Beth sat down at the kitchen table and studied the label on the cereal box. “I can’t eat this. You’re trying to kill me.”

“Don’t put any ideas in my head,” her mother cautioned. “Would you please eat your breakfast?”

Tim, her ten-year-old, ran into the kitchen. He slid into a chair at the table and said, “I’ll have bacon and eggs.”

“Whatever happened to good morning?” Mary asked.

“Good morning. I’ll have bacon and eggs.”

“Please.”

“Aw, come on, Mom. I’m going to be late for school.”

“I’m glad you mentioned that. Mrs. Reynolds called me. You’re failing math. What do you say to that?”

“It figures.”

“Tim, is that supposed to be a joke?”

“I personally don’t think it’s funny,” Beth sniffed.

He made a face at his sister. “If you want funny, look in the mirror.”

“That’s enough,” Mary said. “Behave yourselves.”

Her headache was getting worse.

Tim asked, “Can I go to the skating rink after school, Mom?”

“You’re already skating on thin ice. You’re to come right home and study. How do you think it looks for a college professor to have a son who’s failing math?”

“It looks okay. You don’t teach math.”

They talk about the terrible twos,
Mary thought grimly.
What about the terrible nines, tens, elevens, and twelves?

Beth said, “Did Tim tell you he got a D in spelling?”

He glared at his sister. “Haven’t you ever heard of Mark Twain?”

“What does Mark Twain have to do with this?” Mary asked.

“Mark Twain said he has no respect for a man who can only spell a word one way.”

We can’t win,
Mary thought.
They’re smarter than we are.

She had packed a lunch for each of them, but she was concerned about Beth, who was on some kind of crazy new diet.

“Please, Beth, eat all of your lunch today.”

“If it has no artificial preservatives. I’m not going to let the greed of the food industry ruin my health.”

Whatever happened to the good old days of junk food?
Mary wondered.

Tim plucked a loose paper from one of Beth’s notebooks. “Look at this!” he yelled. “ ‘Dear Beth, let’s sit together during study period. I thought of you all day yesterday and—’”

“Give that back to me!” Beth screamed. “That’s mine.” She made a grab for Tim, and he jumped out of her reach.

He read the signature at the bottom of the note. “Hey!
It’s signed ‘Virgil.’ I thought you were in love with Arnold.”

Beth snatched the note away from him. “What would you know about love?” Mary’s twelve-year-old daughter demanded. “You’re a child.”

The pounding in Mary’s head was becoming unbearable.

“Kids—give me a break.”

She heard the horn of the school bus outside. Tim and Beth started toward the door.

“Wait! You haven’t eaten your breakfasts,” Mary said.

She followed them out into the hallway.

“No time, Mother. Got to go.”

“Bye, Mom.”

“It’s freezing outside. Put on your coats and scarves.”

“I can’t. I lost my scarf,” Tim said.

And they were gone. Mary felt drained.
Motherhood is living in the eye of a hurricane.

She looked up as Edward came down the stairs, and she felt a glow.
Even after all these years,
Mary thought,
he’s still the most attractive man I’ve ever known.
It was his gentleness that had first caught Mary’s interest. His eyes were a soft gray, reflecting a warm intelligence, but they could turn into twin blazes when he became impassioned about something.

“Morning, darling.” He gave her a kiss. They walked into the kitchen.

“Sweetheart—would you do me a favor?”

“Sure, beautiful. Anything.”

“I want to sell the children.”

“Both of them?”

“Both of them.”

“When?”

“Today.”

“Who’d buy them?”

“Strangers. They’ve reached the age where I can’t do anything right. Beth has become a health-food freak, and your son is turning into a world-class dunce.”

Edward said thoughtfully, “Maybe they’re not our kids.”

“I hope not. I’m making oatmeal for you.”

He looked at his watch. “Sorry, darling. No time. I’m due in surgery in half an hour. Hank Cates got tangled up in some machinery. He may lose a few fingers.”

“Isn’t he too old to still be farming?”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Mary knew that Hank Cates had not paid her husband’s bills in three years. Like most of the farmers in the community, he was suffering from the low farm prices and the Farm Credit Administration’s indifferent attitude toward them. Many were losing farms they had worked on all their lives. Edward never pressed any of his patients for money, and many of them paid him with crops. The Ashleys had a cellar full of corn, potatoes, and wheat. One farmer had offered to give Edward a cow in payment, but when Edward told Mary about it, she said, “For heaven’s sake, tell him the treatment is on the house.”

Mary looked at her husband now and thought again:
How lucky I am.

“Okay,” she said. “I may decide to keep the kids. I like their father a lot.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m rather fond of their mother.” He took her in his arms and held her close. “Happy birthday, plus one.”